


Where dwell the ghouls

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fluffy team feelings, Gen, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gathering was for young descendents of SHIELD employees. There would be games, costumes, vittles, and libations, and the celebration coincided with a month of harvest-related revelry, sun deity worship, and prayers for the dead.</p>
<p>Thor, Sif could tell, was mostly interested in the candy.</p>
<p>(After all, she'd thought, his prayers for the dead were answered, were they not?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where dwell the ghouls

Come to the party, Thor had said a fortnight earlier. The bifrost is repaired, and there will be spiders and candy. Sif was not certain he was correct about the details. He was reading a thick file of literature brought back after his last visit to Midgard. The gathering was for young descendents of SHIELD employees. There would be games, costumes, vittles, and libations, and the celebration coincided with a month of harvest-related revelry, sun deity worship, and prayers for the dead.

Thor, Sif could tell, was mostly interested in the candy.

(After all, she'd thought, his prayers for the dead were answered, were they not?)

Sif stared into the iridescent sheen of the bifrost. Heimdall, unblinking, paused in front of her. Her armor was a weight she no longer registered, but her boots pinched at more than one toe. Too much trouble to go back and change them. She nodded at Heimdall. He plunged his sword deep in the bifrost's apparatus. She stepped forward and dissolved in the light.

The bifrost sat her down in a field a half mile from her intended destination, a country house Thor had described as impressive by mortal standards. Upon arriving in its driveway, she saw it was a true castle, scaled down. Four turrets. And lacking a moat. But close enough.

A SHIELD agent wearing a belled jester's cap waved her through a gate in the side yard. "Zeenah has landed," she heard him say into his communication device as she walked on. Behind the mansion, the yard brimmed with small cackling goblins. Winding her way through the crowd Sif observed sprites and an ogre, two sorcerers, a whole army in miniature, some dressed in an Asgardian kind of fashion -- winged helmets, billowing capes -- some in sleek black or purple attire, and others in tattered shorts and smeared with grease the color of ripe limes. Everywhere there were strange beings, tiny and stomping or giggling or groaning, scabs oozing on their temples, clothing in shreds. 

Stark, who wore an armor of cherry red metal, called out something that sounded like "Pepper, zom bee cong guh line, five minutes!" and a cheer passed through the horde. Sif noted, not unkindly, that the suit made him seem taller than he had the last time she had seen him. The Pepper in question had tufted ears and a tail to accompany a glossy pelt like a panther's. She was handing out little cakes iced with bright orange fluff.

A bevy of butterfly-winged girls twirled in gowns with diaphanous skirts. From inside the head of a giant yellow bird a small boy's face appeared. The child seemed to be struggling to walk in his new wide and riotously feathered body. 

Sif recognized Son of Coul standing near a gigantic black bat, or someone costumed as such, and a pile of pumpkins too high for even Volstagg's eyes or stomach. The agent was dressed in a formal but odd blue...Sif puzzled over a word that might apply. Uniform? Blue with long sleeves and short pants, and a red collar, gloves, and tights. And blue boots. A uniform, she thought, but not necessarily a useful one. "Bruce!" someone yelled, and both the bat and a nearby man with a shocking cloud of white hair and wild white mustache turned at the sound.

"You must be Sif," a woman she passed to her left said. 

Sif turned and found the odd uniform's equally odd counterpart, this one familiar to her from pictures she had seen, even if the person wearing the ensemble at present was smaller than expected. Another red and blue outfit, this time featuring both a mask and a clean white star on the chest. Over the woman's left eye a lock of red hair had come loose from the mask. "Natasha," the woman said, smiling a sheepish sort of smile.

Sif returned the grin, pleased to meet another of the brave soldiers who fought on Midgard alongside Thor. "This is a very merry bash," she said, feeling... Tall. She was not prone to awkwardness, but Midgard was always more bewildering than she anticipated.

"Oh, god, there's not another war on, is there?" a man said. He was handsome but for being covered in spots, and had brought Natasha a beverage the color and consistency of goat phlegm.

"What are you?" Natasha asked him, taking a sip of the drink.

"Smallpox victim." 

"Ew," Natasha said, and Sif could not tell if it was in reaction to the costume or the drink. 

"Or chickenpox."

"That's not actually much less gross," Natasha told him.

He shrugged and waved at Sif. "Barton."

"Nice to meet you," Sif said.

"You've been introduced to the rest of the gang?" 

"Not everyone, no." Across the lawn a series of sparkling explosions in the crisp air provoked thrilled screams from some of the children. "And I am not here for battle." She tried to sound non-threatening, lest anyone mistake her usual attire as proof of coming conflict. 

"That's Agent Hill, shooting off the fireworks over there," Barton said, pointing at a slim woman wearing a SHIELD uniform. "She's going as an officer who won't kill you with her pinky finger for innocently inquiring about her undercover assignments."

"That wasn't what you asked her," Natasha said to him pleasantly. "And just because she hasn't killed you yet doesn't mean she isn't planning to later." Sif enjoyed the matter of factness with which Natasha offered this. To Sif she said, "Director Fury is the scarecrow running the apple bobbing contest." The man, whose clothing seemed to be stuffed with wheat chaff, was being helped by a woman who was dressed as... Well, Sif thought, Loki would have said she was dressed as a wench. 

"Dr. Banner," Barton continued, gesturing at the man with the untamed white hair, "and Hank and Janet were around here somewhere." He scratched around a dot on his nose. "I think they were dressed as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum."

"Rogers?" Natasha inquired.

Barton looked thoughtful for a second. A skull flew over their heads and knocked over a bowl of tri-colored corn kernels, or maybe old teeth. A rabbit-shaped child sped by with an out of breath "Sorry!"

"He's probably with Thor," Barton said. "Ghost stories by camp fire."

"Oh yeah," Natasha agreed. "After the hay ride. They were going to set up outside the cabin."

"We'll show you the path down there," Barton said, and they began walking to the tree line. Sif kept pace while a throng of who knew what -- they were gray with bald bulbous heads and spindly limbs -- ran 'round them.

"Aliens," Barton explained.

Like me? Sif thought but declined to ask aloud. 

"Here, take my flashlight," Natasha said. It was almost nighttime, Sif realized, and the forest was darker than the yard. "It's not very far."

The flashlight was heavy; it would make a decent weapon. Not that Sif wanted to have to use it as such, but she liked to be prepared. The morning's chore had been sharpening and polishing the three weapons she wore. There was no satisfaction equal to the unblemished lethal shine of a fresh blade, save piercing the heart of an enemy with one. Bludgeoning could be gratifying in its own way, though. 

Soon down the trail a man's voice came to her, telling tales gruesome and bizarre, of white wolves and hooks, sausages and soup, an old woman all skin and bones. She picked her way to the end of the trail as lightly as she could so as not to disrupt the proceedings.

In the clearing a dozen children sat on logs around a rock-lined pit of flame. A handful of sedate adults, parents, Sif guessed, stood off near a log cabin, watching. The children were quite young, no older than four or five mortal years, she would estimate. Their altered faces -- whiskers, something that glittered, tiny cheeks covered in scales or half hidden by a mask of rubbery warts -- were upturned in the light. They were, Sif saw, dazzled by their storyteller, who ended his last yarn with a loud "BOO!" The children tittered, and clapped as the man took a profoundly awkward bow.

Steve Rogers was a Captain, a natural leader, Thor had said, and someone he admired. At present the Captain was dressed as a banana. 

"Okay, s'mores time," he said and the children all sprang up as if goosed and rushed toward a blanket covered in sticks and...food. It was most likely food, Sif thought. The other adults joined the children to assist. Sif tucked the flashlight beside a vacated log.

The banana waved. "Hello there. Is one of these yours?" He leaned to the left, where the children were spearing what seemed to be tiny white pillows on the sharpened ends of branches, and nearly lost his balance.

"By the Norns, _no_ ," Sif said, biting off a laugh. 

Even in the dim light she could tell the banana blushed. "Ah, you must be Sif, then. Thought you seemed, er." He stopped himself from whatever his first instinct was, and she took a second to be charmed by how abashed he seemed. "Regal," he decided on.

She smiled, wry. "Thank you, but I fear I shall forever remain a disappointment in that arena." Her kin had certainly voiced such complaints. She looked down and saw the mud on her boots -- a warrior's feet, no less but nothing more.

"Do not let her fool you," a familiar voice intoned, "she may yet rule Asgard to its end."

"How would that even be possible," Sif started to say, turning. Thor stood in the doorway of the cabin. He held a bag of the small pillows. A whining frog-child was jumping up and down in front of him, trying to get his attention. He put the bag in her amphibious hands and she hopped off, making ribbity noises. 

"Captain Steve Rogers, may I introduce Sif Pálldóttir." Moving toward her, Thor was grinning, and if the grin did not quite seem as boisterous as he might have once produced, Sif could forgive him since she could not imagine what showed on her own face.

He was not exactly clean shaven -- not exactly clean in any possible way -- and his hair was loosed, tangled. He wore an unadorned shift of gray and trousers black or dark blue underneath crimson stains plastering the cloth to his chest and down his arms. A gash, glistening and serrated, traced one cheekbone. There was a smear of rust at the hollow of his throat, and shadows beneath his eyes.

Sif tried to secure what she felt: dear friend, speak again that I may be sure of you. Miles away, thunder unrolled across the sky. Thor shot her a look nearly sly, and something in her chest unclenched. 

Steve asked, "Was it supposed to rain?" His banana did not look waterproof.

The children had started squealing in unison. Icy rain spiked down through the forest canopy; the parents began gathering up supplies, discarded pieces of costume, and the little savages themselves, who ran up the trail with their unexplained spears waving dangerously. 

The banana -- _Captain_ \-- sneezed. "Pardon me," he said, scrunching up his forehead.

Thor chuckled. "You have caught Stark's cold, Rogers."

"It's allergies, I think. I barely saw Tony last week." There was a note in his voice Sif could not place. "And he's been fine since September anyway; he was just milking it to get out of paperwork." 

"Go on ahead," Thor told him. "Sif and I will clean up here." 

"I appreciate it." Steve fumbled in a pocket and conjured up a set of keys. "Ma'am," he said to Sif, tipping his banana-head toward her respectfully before waddling away.

She and Thor ducked into the cabin. On the table by the door sat a huge glowing pumpkin. Its orange shine threw abnormal shadows over the rough walls. An ax with a large, dirty head was leaned blade-down against a table leg. 

"That is part of my costume," Thor said.

Sif did not like to think what sort of profession involving chopping would warrant such a lot of fake -- hopefully fake -- blood, but then considered how else axes were commonly used. But not on Midgard anymore, surely? She was given to understand the mortals had devised much more fussily complicated weapons of late, thanks in part to inclusions of Asgardian technology.

Thor continued cheerfully, "I was told there are many entertainments here that involve ax-wielding maniacs." Before she could form a response, he hugged her with enough eagerness to force breath from her lungs.

"It is good to see you," he said. 

"It is good to see you too," she said with effort. 

He put her down. "You are well?"

"Yes," she said. "And you?"

"Well enough."

"I think I saw everyone you have talked of. I did not see Doctors Foster and Selvig nor Miss Lewis, though. Are they here?" 

"No, they are working on another special assignment from SHIELD in Norway. I hear there is much excitement over some test results that were recently achieved. I expect they are very busy indeed." There was something carefully nonchalant about the way he spoke. 

"Ah. Well, I hope to greet them again some other time."

Which was true. She had known them but shortly, and they had seemed to be kind and worthy allies. And Sif had thought Thor was very fond of Jane -- then, of course, the time when he was mortal was brief and hectic, to say the least, and so much had happened since. 

Like Loki. Sif suppressed a sigh. Over a thousand years and more, Loki was almost always the answer to any question of what had happened.

Thor stooped to pick up a large paper bag full of more white pillows.

"What _are_ those?" she asked.

"A delectable Midgardian delicacy," he said, removing one of the packages and placing it on the table. "Marshmellows."

The prominent word printed on the bag indicated a slightly different pronunciation. "Or marshmallows?" That seemed familiar-- "Oh! Are all the children afflicted like the Captain?"

"What?" Thor looked concerned. "No, they seemed fine enough."

"Marshmallow root is often used for sore throats, that sort of thing. You do not recall such a remedy when we were younger? That time we all took ill after the battle at Niffleheim's border? Eir's apprentice, I believe she tried every potion she knew trying to get Fandral to stop crabbing about how every swallow was an agony."

She thought, Loki would know what I was talking about.

Thor was thinking it too, she saw, some melancholy flitting quickly over his expression. He recovered, saying, "I remember one of the healers threatening to separate you and Hogun if you would not cease wrestling in the hallway and disturbing the other patients." 

"Only once!" Sif said, ready to defend her reputation. They had not been really young, that time in the healing rooms, not compared to any mortal. But young for Asgardians, back from one of their first true wars, drunk with too much confidence in their own abilities -- the Warriors Three had begun perfecting their Kiss of the Hag maneuvers during one attack -- too proud of their wounds and the numbers of dead felled on the icy land a world away. 

"It was you and Loki who kept knocking into people. And then you turned the mattresses over to build a fort, and made us pick sides. Remember Loki had stolen a spool of gauze and kept going out the window to filch river stones and was trying to invent some new and improved slingshot? Volstagg refused to choose and ate everyone's bread with honey while we were squabbling how it was not fair if Loki could use magic to--"

She stopped; she had forgotten herself. 

Thor was looking at his hands, a small smile on his face. He glanced at her and she took a breath, let it go.

"Anyway," she said. "Marshmallow. It's a plant, though not one originally indigenous to Asgard."

"I recall something about it now," Thor said. "These, though," he said, "remind me a little of the pikekyss your mother used to bake."

"My mother is a terrible cook," Sif said. Her mother insured the healers stayed busy even when there was no war in progress. 

Thor gave her the bag of marshmallows -- it weighed nearly nothing -- and turned off (turned off?) the pumpkin. He pulled the door shut behind them and locked it. "Yes, but sometimes her concoctions are...interesting despite her best efforts." 

"I will send her your regards," Sif said drily. 

They were met at the fire by his teammates coming down the path and milling around in various states of costume disassembly. Steve's banana was peeled lifeless on the ground. Pepper's tail had landed on top of it like a resting snake. Dr. Banner was prying off his bristly mustache; Natasha had discarded her mask and was attempting to finger-comb her hair into submission. 

"We sent the kids home," Steve said, sounding relieved to his very soul. "You know, the rain."

It was not raining at present, however. Sif sat her bag on a log. Barton was hauling over a smallish lidded chest. When he opened it Sif saw glass-necked bottles nestled in ice cubes. "This is the last of the Oktoberfest batch," he said. "Ah, beer, 'the cause of and solution to all of life's problems.'" 

Natasha took out two bottles and twisted off the caps. She held out one bottle to Sif, who took it with a nod of thanks. 

"Cheers," Natasha said, and they clinked their bottles together.

The beer was cold and spicier than Sif expected. She tried not to judge it too unfavorably compared to her favorite hard cider at her favorite tavern in Asgard. The gathering here was at least less likely to end with a contest where grown men wagered which among them could hoist over his head single handed the largest wild boar that could be located.

Someone had brought cookies down from the yard. Barton and Steve were both building sandwiches from a tray full of sliced meats and cheeses and brown bread. 

"Banner," Thor said, "may we use one of your roasting sticks?" 

"Sure." The man pulled a half dozen thin tree limbs out of a tall bag at his feet. He proffered one to Sif. "I'm Bruce, by the way," he said. She could not put an image of him being many times larger, green, and enraged -- as Thor had described him in his stories -- together with the genial fellow standing there looking a little bit shy and a couple of inches shorter than herself. 

"Sif has never had a toasted marshmallow," Thor told him, solemn as if grave misfortune had befallen her. "We must remedy this."

"Yes," Banner said, unexpectedly enthusiastic. He looked around for the marshmallows and grinned to spot the bag, a man with abrupt desire in his eyes.

Thor winked at Sif. She wondered if the marshmallows were laced with hallucinogens to produce so much adoration.

"All right," Banner said. He had ripped open a bag and was stabbing marshmallows onto the ends of the sticks. And then was putting the marshmallow ends into the fire. He sat down and Thor and Sif joined him.

He put one loose marshmallow in Sif's hand. "Try that first."

She bit into the raw confection, which was chewy and oddly sticky, coated with a thin powder. This was the treat everyone seemed obsessed with?

She must have been grimacing since he said, "I know, right? But try this." He offered her one of the prepared branches, blowing on the speared marshmallow. She took the stick. The marshmallow, no longer aflame, had been scorched black and was beginning to lose its shape, slouching as she pulled it from the tip. She put the whole blob in her mouth at once, hoping she did not look ridiculous.

This marshmallow was -- well, better than the first. It was warm, gooey and crisp both, and tasted of fire. And Thor was right: it did make her think of her mother's baked meringues, though she knew for a fact her mother had not once baked a meringue as any recipe instructed. Thor bumped his shoulder against hers companionably and gave her a second branch. The third marshmallow clung more to her fingers but she had to admit it was really quite delicious.

"Above a certain temperature," Banner was saying to Barton, "heat, and varying durations of heat, caramelize and transform sugar, make its flavor more multi-faceted, more complicated. You taste tart, savory, and bitter components even while you'll taste the sweet too."

Barton, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy child, said, "That's deep, man." 

Banner quirked a smile at him. "Science!"

"Science!" Stark said, appearing from seemingly nowhere to sit down heavily beside him. There was some shared joke there, Sif recognized. He had shed his armor and was wearing black pants, black top, black shoes.

"You were secretly a mime this whole time?" Barton asked him, sounding horrified.

Whatever Stark was going to say in response was preempted by Pepper calling "TONY!" from across the clearing. It was not a yell of terror as much as one rather like Sif recalled her and Thor's earliest instructors utilizing when there were neglected lessons at stake. Stark sprang up and away agilely, leaving his teammates snickering.

Sif fell into easy conversation with Natasha and Barton about a new lasso technique Natasha was trying to teach him. Once Stark and Pepper returned, a debate broke out about the relative merits of some foodstuff called Peeps, which Stark and Banner contended were inferior in every way while Steve argued for their honor.

"I wouldn't waste the electricity it would take to blow one up in the microwave!" Stark said, completely dismayed by Steve's defense of the dish.

"You did that this morning with a whole package of ghost ones," Banner pointed out.

"In whose microwave?" Pepper demanded loudly.

In the meantime Thor had eaten an entire bag of marshmallows -- some toasted, some straight from the package -- and was making himself a third sandwich with the last of the meats. 

"We're keeping an eye on him," Natasha said to her, tone light. She scooted over to Sif, corralling a bevy of empty beer bottles with her foot. She gestured in Thor's direction. "Seems like he's hanging in there. Considering."

Sif hesitated but a second, saying, "No, he is always resilient." It would not do for it to seem like she was censoring her words. She did not wish to speak out of turn or tell more than was appropriate. Neither did she wish to pretend all was utterly well. Only a fool would think Thor unaffected by what Loki had wrought. But he did seem to be coping amongst friends on Midgard.

Barton plunked down on the other side of her, trying to avoid an elaborate spiderweb Stark was for whatever reason creating with a little device on his wrist. It was already sticking to Steve's face in a manner Steve did not seem delighted with.

"Not to pry," Barton said softly, "but maybe you could tell us? About what's going on with, you know." He cleared his throat.

Natasha gave him a look that would have raised the hair on the back on a lesser mortal's neck. "He means Loki, of course."

"Yes," Sif started.

"You don't have to tell us anything," Natasha said quickly. "It's not any of our business."

"It might be a little bit my business," Barton said, and Sif recalled that he perhaps more than anyone but the dead, and those who survived the dead, had cause to despise Loki. When he looked at Sif, though, his eyes were only sympathetic. "But she's right, you don't have to say anything. I shouldn't have asked."

Sif watched Thor for a beat. He and Pepper were well on the other side of the firepit, talking. He was different than he was not so long ago, she thought, in some way she could not name, but how could any of these people know that?

"Loki is imprisoned, and we are assured he is being punished according to strictures the All-Father himself deemed just." She hoped she did not sound as dismal as she felt with such rote inadequate words to offer.

"Yeah, Thor said," Barton told her.

"We have not seen Loki since the trial," Sif continued. Those horrid days: Loki's clenched jaw and defiant eyes; the misery in Thor's eyes. If such grief did not show so brightly in him now, she still did not think he was ever again going to be happy like he was before... Before. "The All-Father has forbidden it."

Natasha blinked. "Thor hasn't seen him either?"

"No." Sif scratched at a streak of dried mud on her boot. "Their mother seems to believe the All-Father will relent soon. But there has been no sign of it as yet." She paused. "And we do not know the exact nature of the sentence." She had very purposefully not let herself think about what Loki might be enduring. He deserved it, she thought, a spark of anger on her tongue; but she knew Asgardian mercy could be as terrible as mortal punishment. And. And. And Thor's voice, torn rough with tears as he begged at court for Loki's life, would trouble Sif all her days. 

"Yeah," Barton repeated. He and Natasha both sighed small sighs. "Guess that kinda explains it."

"What?" Sif asked.

Natasha looked over at Thor. He was trying to help Barton untangle Steve from the spiderweb. They were all laughing. No worries.

"It's just, when he got back to earth," she said, "he was..."

"Angry?" Sif guessed. There had been many arguments. No one in a thousand miles of the city could have missed Thor and the All-Father's rages. They could both be hot tempered, but not in an age had they fought so furiously with one another. Columns were left cracked, servants trembling, Frigga distraught. The Warriors Three took themselves to a ship and set sail for points unknown. 

"Quiet," Natasha said. "Just very, very quiet." 

Oh, Sif thought. Oh. She had stayed with Thor the long night before the verdict. They did not sleep, slumped together by the hearth, the pulse in his wrist beneath her thumb, his sorrow like a living creature pacing the room.

Thor was walking over now, and Natasha straightened up. Sif marveled inwardly at the other woman's ability to erase one expression and replace it with something else, in this case, the face of a person completely thrilled to see a large man -- whom she had seconds ago presumably been concerned about for another set of reasons -- bringing her a bloodied ax. 

"Thank you for the use of this weapon," he said, and Natasha said, "No problem." The team started closing up the camp. Stark tipped a bucket of water on the fire and they were, for a split second, bathed in complete darkness. Sif felt around behind her for the flashlight she'd left by the log. She fumbled it up and pressed its end. The glass at the opposite end of it began to glow white-blue. Steve said, "Thank god." He was trying to spark a match without luck.

"There's one bag of marshmallows left," Banner called out. "Who wants 'em? Thor? One for the road?"

"Indeed, if no one else has a claim to them," Thor said. "I wish for the cooks in our kitchens at Asgard to see if they cannot duplicate a similar substance." 

"Are you coming to Asgard with me tonight?" Sif asked. She had not known he was planning to.

"I thought I would." He looked at her; again she realized he was being careful, holding something back. She nodded.

In the yard beside the mansion, they made their goodbyes to the team. Fury, Maria, and Son of Coul were there too, folding up tables, putting trash in big metal cans. The wench was wearing trousers and popping orange and black balloons with a straight pin, creating a brief audio illusion of gunshot. "Write if you get work," Stark said to Thor, and Thor chuckled. "See, Steve, told you," Stark said ribbingly. "That joke kills in every culture." Steve rolled his eyes.

Sif and Thor began heading to the field she had arrived in. "You've nothing else to take with you?" she asked, poking the bag of marshmallows he cradled. 

"Naught but Mjölnir," he said, jangling the tiny charm on his belt.

Halfway up the lane her boots were finally pinching her too severely. She stopped to unbuckle them, wiggled her feet around, and rebuckled. She sprinted to catch up with Thor. He was eating another marshmallow. She meant to take the bag from him but somehow found herself touching his face, the wound on his cheek.

"It is a kind of war paint," Thor explained. "Though there is no war. For theatre and this sort of holiday, I am told." 

"Just checking," she said. 

They walked on in comfortable silence for a few minutes. At the rendezvous point they stopped. Thor turned his face to the sky and said, "Heimdall."

"I miss him too," she said suddenly, surprising herself by saying it aloud, trusting Thor would know she did not mean Heimdall. "I did not always think I would, and perhaps I should not. But I do." She swallowed. "Your father... Your father will change his mind. You will see Loki soon, I am certain of it." 

"Aye," Thor said. The shadows under his eyes, she saw, were not painted on. "I am sure you are right." He grabbed her hand and squeezed it gently. She squeezed his in return.

The bifrost opened; they stepped toward home.

**Author's Note:**

> From the Thor screenplay --  
> Darcy: So, how can you speak our language?  
> Volstagg: Your language? Ha! Silly girl, you're speaking ours.
> 
> Just sayin'.
> 
> Also, FYI, this story's title is taken from Poe's "Dream-Land": ...By the dismal tarns and pools / Where dwell the Ghouls,— / By each spot the most unholy— / In each nook most melancholy— / There the traveller meets aghast / Sheeted Memories of the Past—
> 
> (Ugh, no, in other words, the title doesn't have hardly anything to do with the story; it's just more proof of how very bad I am at titles.)
> 
> Toasted marshmallows are the food of the gods. You cannot convince me otherwise.


End file.
